


Wary

by autumnsolstice9



Category: Naruto
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Minor Character Death, Umino Iruka-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnsolstice9/pseuds/autumnsolstice9
Summary: He has always been wary.
Relationships: Umino Iruka & Uzumaki Naruto
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	Wary

**Author's Note:**

> why does iruka look like hashirama. why was that choice made only for it to never come up or be mentioned. i want answers!!!!!!!

He was never meant to be just a chuunin.

Iruka knows this, knows it in the core of his soul, in the chakra that sits like a river about to overflow in his body, in the way the Sandaime assesses him during their chats over tea. There are few things Iruka is certain of, but this is one of them. Destiny had planned for Umino Iruka to be a legend like Hatake Kakashi, and Iruka had laughed in its face and decided to become a school teacher. A prank pulled on fate itself, on the nation that birthed him and the one that housed him, his greatest and most enjoyable trick.

His mother had warned him, when he was younger, of the lives of shinobi. “Be wary, Iruka,” she had said, blood slowly trailing down a cut on her eyebrow, “Be very wary of those who tell you it is your duty to fight, and to kill, and to put the self last. Make choices when you can, and remember they are gifts in the lives of shinobi.”

He never forgot her words, and when the time came for him to display his strength or retreat into the background for greater nin to take his place, he knew what choice he would make. Konoha would not use him as a killing machine, as much as they would like to, and he would raise his students to be wary of orders and those who make them.

Iruka is a shinobi- a good one, one who could be great. But, before all that, he was his mother’s child, and this is why, when Tsunade’s pensive eyes linger on him for a second too long, he does not waver.

He has always been wary.

***

One of his first memories is the taste of blood. His mother stands before him, kunai in hand, his father’s grip on his face tight, holding his head in place. He thinks the blood is from biting his tongue, fear working its way through his body.

“I’m sorry,” his mother whispers, “I’m so sorry.” The kunai slashes across his face, cheek to cheek over his nose. Once the deed is over, his father lets go of his face in favor of putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Iruka,” he says, hushed in a way he rarely is, “This pain shall pass.” 

Iruka is crying, blood mixing with tears and leaving a foul taste on his lips, and he can’t even sniffle because of the pain in his nose. He is too young to listen to his father’s words, this pain the largest he has experienced in his short life.

There is a person standing next to his mother, one Iruka knows is important but can’t remember in his pain. They lean towards his face, head tilted in a way that makes Iruka cry even harder. “Interesting,” the main murmurs, “Very interesting.”

“Mizukage-sama,” his mother says, harried, “Our son is not a clone of Senju Hashirama. We have no relation to him, no bloodline limit of his, I swear it.”

“No healing,” the man responds, his eyes never leaving Iruka, voice laced with a threat. He feels his father tense beside him, the hand on his shoulder tightening enough that Iruka, even in his toddler mind, knows to be scared. His sobs lessen as he leans into his father’s touch, seeking comfort from the calculating look from the Mizukage and the despairing one from his mother.

“No Senju bloodline limits at all, none!” she blurts out, rushed and panic seeping into her voice. “I promise, Mizukage-sama, I am clanless and my husband has only the Umino bloodline limit!”

The Mizukage finally glances at his mother, cold in a way that forces Iruka to look away. “Kohari, you are not clanless, you are an unknown. What do we know of you, hm? The jonin born to a civilian woman, father unknown. A chakra dead woman giving birth to someone whose skill as a shinobi brings other nations fear. Clanless, you say? How interesting.” A hand harshly grabs Iruka’s face, forcing him to look into the eyes of the Mizukage. “How interesting, indeed.”

When he and his parents finally return home, Iruka has stopped bleeding. His mother and father quickly and frantically grab items around the house- a scroll here, some clothes there, some food, and Iruka’s favorite stuffed animal- and seal them away in a scroll. “My son,” his father says, pulling him into a hug, “The one I care for most in this world. Please, forgive us for what was done to you.”

The cut on his face still stings, still burns when he moves his mouth to talk, but Iruka does not like to see his parents so distraught, so he nods his forgiveness into his father’s chest. “We will protect you,” his father whispers into his hair, “We will protect you, and we will be wary.”

They leave Kiri that night.

***

Once they are close enough to call each other family, sometime during the chaos that is Iruka’s first year of teaching, Naruto asks him about his scar. Iruka glances at the whiskers on the boy's face, remembering the night the kyuubi attacked the village and Kushina’s beast was chained to an infant boy.

“It was a reminder,” he tells him, watching as Naruto hangs on his every word, “To always be cautious of those in power, and those who have more power than you.”

“‘Ruka, why do you have to be cautious?”

Iruka considers the question, and he can feel the waves of chakra in his body, ready to kill and maim if he wanted to. He likes the option he has: he can kill, he can weaken villages, he can destroy empires. He chooses not to, has decided to make a choice for himself, and in this world of blood and orders that is all he can ask for, isn’t it? 

“We are cautious because, in our duty as shinobi, allies and enemies alike want to use us to their advantage. Whether that is to tear someone down or build someone up, we become more of a shinobi and less of the person we are. And,” he adds, bopping a finger against his student’s nose, “I don’t want you to become any less than who you are. You’re Uzumaki Naruto!”

Fondness swells in his chest as Naruto laughs, eyes squinting shut with glee, and Iruka makes a vow like his father once made him. He will protect this boy, this child who he loves, and he will be wary.

***

He and his parents arrive at the gates of Konoha, and are marched before the Hokage. The man sits in an office that looks too big for him, smoking a pipe and appraising the family before him. There is a warm smile on his face, but Iruka’s parents do not relax from where they stand on either side of him, so he does not either.

“Where do you come from?” he asks, gaze flickering from Iruka’s scar, to his mother’s shinobi straight back, to his father’s fierce, fiery stare.

A hand squeezes Iruka’s shoulder in warning. “Uzushio,” his mother lies, and Iruka is still enough a child that he wants to tell the man that his mother is being silly, and must have forgotten they are from Kiri, but the hand on his shoulder has not yet loosened. 

“Ah, Uzushio nin! Our sister village, sending refugees over. What a pleasant surprise.” He nods to someone Iruka cannot see, and minutes later a blonde man enters the room, bowing respectfully to the Hokage. “Yamanaka-san, please treat these guests. We need to know who visits Konoha.”

The hand on Iruka’s shoulder painfully squeezes, and he immediately knows he does not trust this blonde man or the man in the too-big office. They are marched down to a cold room, shackled, and when the Yamanaka steps forward, his mother squirms in her seat, sweat beading on her face when the man comes to lean in towards Iruka. 

“Please,” she begs, “Please, we are doing what we must, for our son. Please do not hurt hi-” and then she goes slack in her chair, and Iruka is screaming and screaming and screaming for his mother, and then a minute later she is back, tense where she sits, the Yamanaka humming as he moves to Iruka’s father.

The process repeats, Iruka screaming and crying for his father, and then he is the one facing the blonde man’s crystal blue eyes, tears and snot running down his face. “Please,” his parents beg, “Please, he’s only four, please don-”

And then Iruka feels weightless.

When he wakes, the Umino family is marched back in front of the Hokage. The smile on his face no longer seems pleasant, and Iruka is so very, very scared. The Hokage motions for his parents to sit, and beckons Iruka forward, coming around so he can place one scarred hand on the boy's shoulder. “Kohari, Ikkaku, I think we may have use of you yet.” Iruka looks at his parents, but they are not looking at his face, their gaze locked on the hand on his shoulder. “I trust you will be good to Konoha, hm?”

“Yes,” his mother blurts, voice raspy, “Yes, of course, Hokage-sama.”

“Yes, Hokage-sama, we will be loyal,” his father answers, quiet, eyes still caught on where the Hokage has his hand laid over Iruka’s shoulder.

“Good, good,” the man says. “And remember, Umino family-” the grip on Iruka tightens until the boy gasps in pain, his parents minutely leaning forward towards their son, the Hokage’s voice something dark and dangerous- “don’t ever lie to me again.”

The Hokage suddenly releases Iruka, and he runs towards his mother, grabbing onto her as if he will never let go.

“He does look like Hashirama,” the Hokage mentions when the family stands to leave his office, “And if he is like Hashirama, that son of yours will need to be Konoha through and through. Never Kiri, only a child with a will of fire. Remember that, and teach him well.”

His parents do not speak the entire walk to their new home- a cramped apartment in a run down building- but they do hold him tight. When Iruka remembers this moment, years later, he thinks of choices made and the way the Mizukage forced his mother hold the kunai that cut his face and the Hokage who had someone rifle through their brains. The power of choices rattle through his head, his mother’s words haunting him from her grave, and he wonders if the choice they made when they fled Kiri for Konoha was really much of a gift at all.

***

When Mizuki throws the shuriken, Iruka chooses to leap in front of Naruto. He is a man who made a promise to protect those he loves, one that he will not break. At one point, Mizuki would have been one of those people he would protect.

Now, Mizuki is just a former friend who stabbed him in the back. He was wary of so many, but Mizuki was supposed to be someone to trust, someone who saw the power in Konoha and understood its danger. Iruka feels like a fool, because of course Mizuki saw the power, of course he knew of the threat it posed, and he sought to take it for himself. Wary Iruka, kind Iruka, friendly but never too close Iruka, and he had gone and trusted the traitor. He will not make the same mistake again.

He is not Senju, not a descendant of Hashirama, though Konoha had hoped he was. He is just Iruka, and the shuriken embedded in his back might be his death, but he does not regret his actions. He had the choice, and each choice is a gift, and he chose to save Naruto.

With a breath that feels too harsh on his lungs, he chooses to apologize to the boy as well. He was too harsh on him beforehand, and while he had felt guilt, he had not verbalized it. The boy deserves to know, and if those are his dying words, Iruka has no problem with that. 

“No,” Naruto growls out, desperation and fury written on his face, “No, you’re not going to die, Iruka-sensei. Not while I’m here.” The scars on his face look like deep jagged lines, his eyes turning to slits, and his nails have stretched into claws. “I’m going to save you, sensei. I promise it.”

And when Naruto produces more clones than Iruka can count, every choice he has made seems worth it. His student, his child, seeing the choice between fighting and fleeing and choosing what would bring him peace of mind. “Thank you,” he whispers, even though Naruto is too far away for him to hear, “Thank you, so much.”

The world fades orange around him as Naruto jumps towards Mizuki.

***

His parents are rarely home. By the time he is six, old enough in Konoha to be somewhat independent, summons consistently come to his home to give his parents missions. When his mother is home, his father is gone, and vice versa. On rare occasions, Iruka will have a day without either parent present. His mother holds him close when she is home and his father is away, letting him run around outdoors but never far from her sight. Every time he falls and scrapes his knees, she comes over to soothe him, her eyes darting to the trees above, always wary.

Iruka’s friend Kurenai said that her parents can heal her cuts. When he plays with her, both will leave with scrapes on their hands and cuts on their legs from running through the forest in a game of tag. She always returns the next day with skin unmarred, while Iruka is still littered with small abrasions. He wonders why his parents do not heal his skin, but sometimes he thinks he can see scary mask-men in the trees when he plays, and he is reminded of the Mizukage and the scar across his face.

Kurenai’s father sends him glances, at times, when he comes searching for his daughter. His eyes narrow at his scraped knees and the bruises that he got while playing, and Iruka does not like the way his eyes get cold when he looks at his parents.

“You Kiri-nin,” he says to Iruka’s mother, spitting towards the ground where his mother stands, “Look at you, savages.”

He and Kurenai glance between their parents, inching closer together as they wait for his mother’s reaction, hands coming out to hold each other for comfort. “Not Kiri,” his mother says, voice tight, “We are Konoha-nin.”

“Then take care of your son,” Yuuhi-san growls, one arm thrusting out to point at Iruka. “Who lets their child run around cut up and with so many bruises?”

His mother’s lips press into a thin line, but she does not respond. Kurenai squeezes Iruka’s hand, their palms sweaty as they watch their parents glower at each other. In the trees, he thinks he sees the flicker of a white mask watching him.

After that, he still plays with Kurenai, but he always backs away towards his parents when her father grows close, wary.

Always wary.

***

When Kakashi pushes forward with nominating his team for the chuunin exams, Iruka hates him. He has the choice to protect his team, still so young and still so scarred from childhood, and he is throwing them to the wolves to be devoured by themselves and the other villages. The power of great men, so distanced from the rest of the world, is to skew the sense of normality in others. So what if Kakashi was chuunin much younger than the rest of the world? Times have changed, these children are not him, and Iruka is furious.

He speaks out. He is out of line, his chakra boiling in him, demanding that he do something. The Hokage is carefully watching him, the same way he does when Iruka goes into his office for tea. He is assessing, his chakra flickering out to read Iruka, always pensive. 

“They’re not your students anymore,” Kakashi icily tells him, “They’re my soldiers.”

He seeks out Kurenai and Asuma’s gaze, hoping to find understanding there. Surely they must know that their students are too young for this, not ready for the terror the other villages will throw at them. He looks at them, truly looks, and can read it in the firmness of Kurenai’s brow and the slight pity Asuma regards him with. They know, and they are choosing to continue with it. 

The Hokage intervenes. “Very well,” he begins, sounding as if he is the generous leader he wants the village to believe him to be, “Iruka-sensei will create a test for the genin, to test their readiness. If they pass, they will compete.” Kakashi still watches him, sharp and everything the rumors make the great copy-nin out to be, and Iruka stares resolutely ahead. 

“Yes, Hokage-sama,” he says through gritted teeth.

The genin all pass, but the worry in Iruka carries is still curled close to his chest. He frets over Hinata, over Sasuke, over Naruto, who because of birth will never be given a choice in the world of shinobi. The Hyuuga heir, the last Uchiha, the kyuubi container. All given gifts too powerful to ever give them autonomy. Taught from before they could speak that being a shinobi was all they could ever want. Iruka is familiar with this, and every leader he has ever bowed before has seen the shadow of the Shodaime in his face, and all have told him to go forward and carry his weapon in the name of their village.

His mother's words echo in his head. Every choice is a gift.

When he finds Kakashi on the rooftop afterwards, fatigue creeps into his bones as he thinks of children without choices, thrust into bloodshed. Kakashi himself seems tired, dark circles under his one visible eye. “They passed,” he says, quietly into the night as he moves to sit next to the great nin. “They’re young, but you have taught them well.”

It’s the closest thing to an apology he can get out. He will never outright apologize- he had the choice to defend those children and he did. He does not regret it. 

“They need more learning experience,” Kakashi replies, staring out somewhere into the distance. “Things are different than when we were younger, when I was their age running missions, but enemies are no less dangerous. The exam will give them the experience they need, will force them to work together and realize how important it is.”

Iruka is silent next to him, unmoving when Kakashi turns his head to look him in the eye, searching his face for something he is not sure he can give. “They’re kids,” he repeats, begging the copy-nin to understand what he is trying to say. They’re kids, his kids, they are too young for the violence the two of them have seen.

Kakashi’s voice is heavy when he answers, eye flickering from Iruka’s to the scar on his face to somewhere over his shoulder. “Sensei, do they have the choice to be kids? Did we?”

Every choice is a blessing. They were rare, they were gifted, they were something one had to make for themself. Iruka remembers being marched in front of the Hokage, a captured prize from Kiri, appraised along with his parents and their safety bought on the condition they become shinobi for the village, useful in any way their superiors demanded. His students, chakra both blessed and cursed in their bodies, did not need the explicit warning he and his family got. He knows how ninja villages work, knows that being a shinobi is something brainwashed into people’s minds. The will of fire, the will of the Hokage, the will of benefactors, all melted into the iron that formed Konoha’s cage. This is why he must be wary, because children do not have the luxury to be children, are not given the choice to throw their lives into the art of murder.

Iruka meets Kakashi’s gaze, seeing the face of a child thrown into war reflected back at him, and feels how his chakra is tamped down and restrained, like Iruka’s own. Sharingan Kakashi, wielder of one of the most powerful weapons in Konoha, more weapon than man, never given the chance to be a child. Understanding passes between them, and both relax where they sit next to each other.

They know the power of choices. They know to be wary.

***

The Kyuubi comes.

His parents meet the beast, fighting to protect a village that they knew for only a few short years. They fight for Konoha just as they fought for Kiri, and Iruka does not know the difference between these duties, only that his parents are running and running and fighting and falling.

He breaks free. He has made his choice, and he will go to his parents, will fight or die with them in this foreign land they call home. 

“Iruka, please, run,” his father tells him, blood running down her chin. He wouldn’t be able to run even if he wanted to, his legs like lead rooting him in place.

“Father, please,” he cries, reaching out towards him, hand against his too cold and already burning skin, “Please, don’t go.”

His father’s smile is too bloody, stained red like he is on fire. “I have no choice in the matter.”

Iruka wants to scream, wants to vomit, wants to be as strong as the Mizukage and Hokage both fear and hope he can be. He turns towards his mother, choking on a cry when he sees her limp body. “Mother, please, please get up. Please run. We can make it, we can be safe!”

His mother looks at him with so much love he thinks it will destroy him. He rushes forward to hug her, burying his face in her hair and knowing this will be the last time he ever can. “I love you, my son,” she murmurs into his ear, a frail hand barely touching his back.

“What will they do to me? What if they think I am Senju?”

“You are not Senju,” she rasps out, “Be wary, Iruka, be very wary, you are not Senju, you are-” she is cut off by a bloody cough. Iruka whips towards his father, desperation surging through him as his mother’s tilts forward, weaker and weaker by the second.

“Please, don’t go, I don’t know what to do without you! I love you, I need you, please, don’t go!”

His father puts a hand on his face, not letting him turn his head to watch his mother in her death. “Not Senju,” his father tells him, “Just our son, just Umino Iruka, just a boy from Kiri. That is enough. Be wary, and make good choices. I love you, my son.” He can hear the kyuubi roar, a monster among men, close enough that violent chakra seemed to pour into the forest like a flood. “Run,” his father begged, “Please, run.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder, a white mask pulling him away from his father, ignoring his screams as a monster emerged from the woods, trampling all in its way, placing him in a cave with the other children. Chakra burns were littered over his body, and they stung but all he could focus on was that his parents were out there, in the way of the kyuubi, and he was going to be alone and they were going to die and-

His screams were cut off as the ANBU who had carried him to the cave rapidly tapped points on his body, sending him into a deep slumber.

***

The Sandaime dies, and Iruka cannot decide how to feel. Fear? Sadness?

Death has shrouded Konoha since he was young. 

When Iruka finds himself at the memorial stone, he settles on a feeling: relief, but not release. Some part of him will miss the man, some part of him that wants to be trusting and understands why the man was so cautious of Kiri refugees. Mostly, he is glad that the man who was dedicated to finding out if he was a descendant of Hashirama is gone. Iruka had not displayed any abilities of the Shodaime over the years, and yet the Sandaime had kept a watchful eye over him. Someone new will take his place, and the cycle will start anew, but, for now, Iruka has reprieve. 

He remembers the man taking him to the memorial stone for the first time, speaking of sacrifice and the will of fire. He told Iruka of the glory of fighting for the will of fire, of the blessing the sacrifice would be, of how the will would provide him a path. Iruka had heard beneath it all, had heard the threat in it. He would be a shinobi, whether he liked it or not. His parents were powerful in Kiri, sharp weapons in Konoha, and their son would follow in their footsteps.

“Thank you, Hokage-sama,” he told the man, “I want to be a shinobi like my parents, to protect the will of fire!”

He remembers what his parents told him time and time again. “We are Konoha nin, never Kiri. Do not ever speak of Kiri to anyone, they must not know, they must know our loyalty. We never were and never knew Kirigakure.”

He is a Konoha nin, even if sometimes he still feels like the little boy bleeding in front of the Mizukage. He is a child, and his mother said choices were gifts. Standing before the memorial stone, the Hokage’s gnarled hand on his shoulder, he truly understood her words. He was given no choice, he was to become a Konoha shinobi.

Now, standing at the man’s funeral, he feels his chakra push and pull through his system, power in his body that he chooses not to utilize. A teacher. A chuunin. His choices.

The Sandaime is laid to rest. For a brief moment, Iruka lets go of his wariness.


End file.
